the clouds were sapped that day,
mist grazing my cheeks, a tear shed in Marseilles.
pelting the stone with my feet, will the grumble of my stomach churn the curd?
Oh, at least the meat left is meant for the peck of a bird.
Inferno, the fire wraps us,
warms us as a blanket would douse,
on a scorching winter, a melting summer spouse,
left for the barricades, bruised heart quelled under a blouse.
how my peers dreamt of the storm,
their aspirations soared from tertiary,
but as the rotten nails told the tales,
how the moulds tasted like heaven than the freedom to bake.
The extravagant affairs have now been subdued,
The outlaws and outcast revered in reds and blues,
oh, how the bundle of fasces would bolster the thirds,
but my offsprings cry their prayers of quixotic pearls.
so, I left no stone unturned,
collect the broken glass, prize sovereign.
the liberty you yearn for, the lives you mourned
humour me, sceptre or thirds,
guillotine me and feed my lasses.
YOU ARE READING
balsam
PoesíaScouring the scales, one bitter memory withers, scalloping like a dandelion, aimlessly he tethers, time crumples, tears stifle the dunes, your past is now a balsam, swivelling in ruins. 🌱 touch me not, for my dismay is a withdrawal symptom. All rig...
